


Shortcuts

by sunspot (unavoidedcrisis)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: 5 Times, Banter, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-08-17 01:58:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16507160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unavoidedcrisis/pseuds/sunspot
Summary: Blackwall's got a keen sense of direction and a fantastic memory for shortcuts.





	1. i. Fallow Mire

The first time Warden Blackwall suggests a shortcut, it's a no-brainer.

They've been out in the Mire for two days, away from camp in the sucking mud and the omnipresent drizzle of rain, and no one is happy.

They stop, yet again, so Varric can clear some corpse chunks out of Bianca's firing mechanism.

"Stop getting so close to them then, dear," Vivienne says, talking over Varric's heated complaints about the shambling ghouls. He immediately shoots back some clever snark or another, and they snipe back and forth while the Inquisitor and Blackwall sit on a mouldering log and look at the rough map Harding handed over when they'd first arrived.

"You know," Blackwall says, staring intently at a spot on the paper just above Inquisitor Matsora Cadash's thumb, "I think I remember a shortcut. I was here once, long ago, before the Blight. Could be washed away now, or be swarming with ghouls, but it could shave at least half a day off our trek if I'm right."

"Half a day less in this nightmare? All right, stop bickering you lot, Blackwall has saved the day!" Matsora folds up the map and climbing to her feet before sticking her hand out to Blackwall.

"Oh, really?" Vivienne doesn't say anything else, but she doesn't need to because she can fit the entire denunciation in just two words.

Everyone's boots are wetter than they may have otherwise been, but they make it to camp much sooner than anticipated and with minimal skirmishes with the undead.

As they crowd around the small fire, Varric settles in to clean Bianca. He claims he loves the rhythm of it, the smell of the oil, and the -- "Ugh, is this a tooth?"

"Mine!" Matsora says, snatching it from his hand. It disappears into her sleeve or one of her coat's thousand pockets in half a blink of an eye.

"... When did you lose a tooth, Inquisitor?" Varric asks after trading a disconcerted look with Blackwall.

"I meant I'm going to take it. To Helisma. For… research purposes. Research tooth." She claps Blackwall on the shoulder and reaches for a bowl for stew. "Good shortcut."


	2. ii. The Emerald Graves

"No offense," Matsora says, to no one in particular, "but I fucking hate this place."

"And why would that offend?" Blackwall asks. He braces himself quickly on a tree when he stumbles on yet another root sticking up in the barely-there path. The Emerald Graves are swiftly becoming the Obsidian Graves as night falls around them.

The Inquisitor shoots a look at Solas, a few feet behind them. "It's… an elfy place," she says, dropping her voice a little.

"This trail is so damnably hard to follow," comes the tired reply from Solas, with no history lesson attached. Maybe he's just out of bone-chilling facts about the Dales (unlikely, it's a fucking horror story treasure trove), maybe he knows Sera is scouting ahead and will pelt him with pinecones if he starts again (which would definitely happen, but doesn't seem like the kind of thing he'd be worried about), or maybe he's just focused on not tripping like the rest of them are (probably what's happening here).

"We'll rest for a moment, then. Sera, wait!" Matsora calls to the trees in front of them. The woods are nice, she thinks, if you don't know much about history. Knowing what all went on here, and knowing there's probably so much extra awfulness that was lost to time just made the distant, mournful bird calls, the floating fireflies, and the sweet, earthy smell of grass seem eerie and unwholesome.

Blackwall's squinting into the dusk with one foot up on a stump and hands on his hips. "Come on then, I think there's a shortcut back to Direstone camp," he says finally.

"You a saint," Matsora says. "A Paragon. A miracle man."

He chuckles and a faint blush appears above the beard. He leads the way, glancing back only once to grace her with a grin. Matsora beams back and tells herself her heart just skipped a beat because she's excited to get to camp. 

Behind them, there's a commotion of rustling leaves and some loud grumbling as Sera swings down from a tree. She lets loose a colourful string of swears when she's sees they've changed direction. "Oh, the other way now, yeah? Hello? Oi, wait for me!"


	3. iii. Crestwood

Matsora glances between her friends standing by the dragon carcass.

"Whoa, Boss. 'Carcass' is a strong word, don't you think?"

"What would you have me say?" she asks, skepticism heavy in her voice and head cocked questioningly. The Iron Bull crosses his arms over his chest, dropping his eyes the the dragon again.

"Body, I guess? Or remains? Just... _Carcass._ It's kinda vicious, kinda cold. It just puts it all out there."

"Oh, hello there everyone. In case you needed the update, _I'm bleeding,_ " Dorian interjects before they can etymologize the dragon to death all over again. He's pinching the bridge of his nose and glaring sideways at Blackwall.

"Aw, did she getcha?"

"'Did she get me?' Maker save me from these people. Bull, have you ever considered just marrying a dragon?"

"Have I?! You have no idea how many times I've considered it."

Blackwall leans down and nudges Matsora. "I think we can cut through the hills a little to the east of here to get back to the highway. I remember it being rocky, so it shouldn't be very soft from the water, but we should be careful anyway."

"Why are you whispering?" she asks, also in a whisper.

"I'm afraid to interrupt them. They seem to have a rhythm going."

"Bull, I don't care what's traditional. I'm not bringing any kind of gift if you marry a dragon. I would, in fact, be delighted to burn the invitation to cinders and never even give you the courtesy of a response!"

Matsora steps between them before they get too distracted to move on again. "Okay fellas, enough, please, we'll ask Josephine what etiquette dictates and go from there. I'm starting to get a headache."

Blackwall looks over, concern writ large across his face. "Did you hit it off something when you dove for cover?"

"Probably, I'm about as graceful as a dead cat, but I meant more the wedding planning." She laughs and presses her hand against Blackwall's arm. "Good to know you're looking out for me, and that you saw how clumsy I am in action. Wouldn't want you thinking I'm too perfect."

"Oh, no, never. Thinking like that, that's the trap," Blackwall says, offering her his arm.

Matsora slips her arm through his, biting back her glee. "Should we let them know we're moving on?"

"They'll catch up, I imagine."


	4. iv. Emprise du Lion

Matsora looks up from keeping her eyes on her boots to see Cole on the ledge far above, reaching down to hoist Cassandra up by her arms. Her legs dangle for a second and then she's standing in front of him. He dips his head and his face disappears under the wide brim of his hat. She can't make out what they're saying.

Cole is so much stronger than he looks, probably stronger than anyone else, and even though she knows this, it still blows her mind a little every time she sees him actually using that strength.

Her thoughts are interrupted by another wave of nausea. She avoids throwing up on herself this time, which is better than she managed the first two times. Blackwall's instantly beside her, planting his leg behind her so she doesn't slip back down the ridge.

"We're almost to camp," he says, words mostly carried away by the wind. "Just a little further."

She nods, not wanting to speak in case more her stomach has found more bile to bring up. Blackwall doesn't leave her side until she's finished getting it all out. When she finally straightens up again, he sets his hands on her shoulders and studies her face closely for a moment. It's too windy to speak, so Matsora leans into his touch, just for a moment.

Blackwall stays right behind her as they climb the rest of the way to the top, even though she's usually steadier on her feet than he is. He fusses over her sometimes and she finds she doesn't really want to stop him. It's sweet, really, reminds her that she's a woman and not just an idea or a figurehead.

Soon, it's obvious they're not going to make it to an Inquisition camp tonight. They find shelter in an outcropping of rocks and Cole helps Blackwall set up the tents as far out of the wind's reach as possible. She and Cassandra search nearby for firewood.

"The one time I don't bring a mage," Matsora mutters, prying another stick up from under the snow. "These are going to be a nightmare to light."

"Are you all right, Inquisitor?" Cassandra asks, pushing another log with her foot until she can line it up and split it in half with the hand axe from Blackwall's pack.

"I want to sit in front of the fire and forget today happened," Matsora says, voice threatening to crack. "But we'll never get a fire lit with this wet, shitty wood."

"Today was… more difficult than most days," Cassandra says. There's a sigh in her voice that the wind can't quite carry away. She splits another log and then comes over to where Matsora is kicking snow around, trying to find more kindling.

"Yeah," Matsora says, squinting against the wind and the angry tears that are threatening to do her in. 

Back at the campsite, she wipes her face on somewhat clean underclothes from her pack, thankful for Cassandra's steady presence but still very much uneasy. She sits close by and watches without comment as Cole lights a fire.

"The wood doesn't mind," Cole assures them. "It always wants to be in springtime, soaking in sun. That's just a little step from the scorch and the sear, lighting, igniting…"

"Back up a little," Cassandra tells him, poking his shoulder. "You're leaning in too close."

As Cole and Cassandra are discussing the nature of the relationship between a campfire and burns to a person's hands and face, Matsora wonders if she can lie face down in her bedroll until the sun comes up again or if some other horrifying thing is still going to happen today.

"Here you are, Inquisitor," Blackwall says, pushing hot tea into her hands. He crowds up beside her on the log she's sitting on, layering his fur over the woolen blanket in her family's colours.

"Not laughing at my blanket now, are you?" she asks, trying to muster up a smile for him despite the black cloud hanging over her spirits.

Granny Cadash had it sent through a network of the Cadash family spies and traveling surface merchants when Matsora had sent word home that she was safe at Skyhold. Some of her companions had laughed themselves silly at that, especially when Matsora told them a little more about Granny Cadash, ruthless leader of the Cadash crime family; tough, terrifying, and hardly four feet tall.

"I feel a fool for every doubting your granny," he assures her.

"So many do," she says. "Blackwall… Did I ever tell you that I fucking hate the snow?"

Blackwall laughs hard and long. Cole laughs along, because he's been trying to practice more. Even Cassandra chuckles, though ducking her head to hide it. It draws a little smile out of Matsora, and that little smile turns into a big one, until she's gathering the fur around her and shoving Blackwall off the log.

"It wasn't meant to be a joke," she says in protest, but he just laughs harder.

"I'm sorry," he says, dusting snow off his legs. "You're just such a picture, with snow all over your coat and your eyebrows and everything else, bundled up in furs and swearing about the snow."

She glares at him, but of course, there's no heat to it. There's no heat to anything in this awful place. Blackwall settles back in beside her, tucking the bearskin a little more tightly around her legs. He pulls one of his mittens off with his teeth and smoothes his hand over her brow, tucking stray hairs under her hat.

Matsora's intake of breath is audible, and he snatches his hand back like she's hurt him.

"Apologies," he says. There could be a redness rising in his cheeks, but it's probably just the wind. "I only wanted… I didn't mean to…"

"I'm exhausted," Matsora says, instead of telling him how his tenderness just startled her. She can't say that his touch makes her mind foggy, whether it's his gentle hand brushing against her face or jostling her with his elbow when he makes a bad pun or grabbing her out of the way of a despair demon's sickly aura. So she begs off to bed instead and tries not to dwell on what he may be thinking of her.

Lying on her side, she can just make out shadows cast by the campfire. She can’t make out what Cassandra’s saying to Cole in her surprisingly patient tone, but the low cadence of their voices is comforting. There’s a rustle at the tent flap when Blackwall crawls in and starts to make himself comfortable in his bedroll with his back to her. He doesn’t say anything, whether he thinks she’s sleeping or just doesn’t want to speak to her because she offended him earlier…

Matsora is twisted and she likes pain, so she has to know which it is. "Goodnight, Blackwall," she says, quietly, so he can pretend he didn’t hear it if he wants.

He rolls over and claps his hand over her shoulder, obviously not deterred from casual touch by her awkward outburst earlier. "Goodnight, Inquisitor. Today was trying. Tomorrow will be brighter."

"Thank you," she says, even quieter. Her voice stuck like a lump in her throat. Blackwall doesn’t take his hand away. He must feel the cold, though their body heat is warming the air, but he doesn’t hide his hand under his blankets. He leaves it on her arm, a reminder that she’s not alone.

Here, now, quietly and with the darkness and their positions obscuring any view, she smiles at his touch. The weight of his large hand, the proximity of him to her; she finds herself giddy every time he’s close. Her smile widens and the enormity of everything – from the implications surrounding this revelation, to the cruelty they witnessed here, and the trail of bodies ahead and behind them, the war, the fighting, the non-stop travel, and ultimately, the fact that she can’t get any of it out of her head is too much.

Matsora starts to giggle.

It’s uncontrollable once it starts. She tries to keep it quiet, but it’s a full-body giggle, with shaking and clapping her hands to her mouth and everything.

"Inquisitor?" Blackwall asks, sitting up and rubbing her shoulder. He sounds amused, if a little confused.

She laughs harder. He’s concerned (and reasonably so, she must sound like a madwoman), and yet he still calls her by the made-up title she never asked for. The laughter burns brightly and then instantly snuffs out, tears prickling the corners of her eyes and spilling over almost immediately.

Presumably dumbfounded, he pulls her bodily into his lap, tucking her blanket around them both. Pressed against his chest, breathing in the scent on his clothes and feeling his beard tickle her forehead, Matsora feels another wave of tears start. At least the sounds she's making are muffled and she won't attract wolves with her howling.

Blackwall, who really ought to be made a Paragon for all that he puts up with, doesn't say a damn word. He just holds her close and brushes his hand back and forth across her back, waiting until she settles again. He deposits her back onto her own bed, letting her twist from his arms and curl back in on herself, facing away.

Thankfully, she feels sleep inexorably weighing down on her despite her fears about being up all night with nightmares. Blackwall shuffles a bit closer, curving his body around her back, settling one arm over her waist. It feels protective and she wants to thank him for being kind, for being close by, for everything, but sleep takes her quickly.

She wakes up in the same position with Blackwall still pressed against her. Sometime in the night, their blankets have been combined and layered up, and it's almost uncomfortably hot. Her hips and legs are stiff from not moving all night and his beard is itchy on the back of her neck. Matsora hasn't shared sleeping space like this in years and she's not used to it.

She doesn't move a muscle.

He wakes up shortly after her and extracts himself from the bundle very quickly. She feigns waking up once he's moved away and they exchange boring pleasantries as if the entire preceding day and night didn't happen.

Out past the confines of the tent, the wind has gone and though it's biting cold, it's a clear, sunny day. Blackwall excuses himself to take a quick look around and establish where exactly they are while Matsora rummages in her pack for another sliver of tea to boil up.

"Inquisition troops at the base of the Tower are asking for our assistance," Cassandra says, reading from a tiny scroll. There's a very fat raven sitting with Cole by the fire that must have brought it. They seem to be deep in conversation, though the bird isn't saying much.

"Did you get any sleep?" she asks, glancing up to Cassandra as she takes the note.

Cassandra snorts. "Between you and Blackwall snoring in harmony like a pile of old cats? Just a bit."

Of course Cassandra saw them. There's a feeling like a stone dropping inside her, sending out ripples of embarrassment and fondness.

"Back to Tower camp, is it?" Matsora says, too loud. Any redness in her cheeks can be explained by the cold, after all, so she needn't comment.

"The Tower? It's just over this way." Blackwall appears as if from nowhere, but if she squints, Matsora can see the crevice in the ice he just stepped out of. "We could have been there last night if we'd spotted the shortcut."

Cassandra and Matsora groan together.

"She was just telling me that," Cole says, as the raven takes flight, leaping off his hat. "We're nearby, close, coming soon, not far and not to worry."

"You couldn't have said last night?" she asks, though she knows what his answer will be. Secretly maybe, she doesn't mind so much, even in spite of her little meltdown and her stiff joints.

"No one asked," Cole says. "Besides, you both wanted an excuse to --"

" _Shortcut,_ Cole, let's go!"


	5. v. Halamshiral

"Don't draw attention to yourself," Leliana says. Matsora barely sees her mouth move and they’re not making eye contact, but her words ping around in Matsora’s mind like she’d shouted them.

"I hate this place," she mutters to herself as she skirts her way around the upper gallery to one of the smaller rooms. Her red jacket fits wonderfully and she fucking hates it. It’s way too conspicuous, which Leliana, Vivienne, and Josephine all agree makes it perfect to wear to this stupid ball, but she’s four foot eight, has tattoos on her face, and a glowing green hand, the least they could have done was give her some greys and browns so she’d have a chance at moving around without attracting all the attention in Orlais, but no. Red. Scarlet, even.

"You too?" Cullen sidles up next to her. "I’d rather be anywhere else."

She smirks, glancing up at him as they lean next to each other against the railing. "A fight for our lives would be good right about now."

"Some demons."

"Another trip into the Fade."

"A dragon."

"Oh, no, I promised Bull I wouldn’t see any dragons without him."

"Ah, a pity. Well, good luck, stay out of trouble. Leliana’s glaring daggers at us. I fear I must go make polite small talk with the circling vultures again," Cullen says, as a small knot of women stalk towards them. Not one of them even glances at her. With Cullen around, it doesn't matter what colour she's wearing, she may as well be invisible.

She runs into Blackwall in the Hall of Heroes and he beams when he sees her, wearing a jacket to match hers. Except the tailor Josephine brought in obviously spent so much time making hers perfect that he rushed through everyone else’s because Blackwall’s outfit looked… tight. Not in a bad way, she amends in her mind. _Definitely_ not a bad way. His shoulders stand out prominently, then his biceps and his chest, and lower down, his -- no, she came here with a job in mind and now she absolutely has to get on it.

* * *

"We’ve got to get back before Gaspard does something _Orlesian_ ," she says, struggling back into her awful red jacket. "Which way back to the gardens?"

"This way is faster," Blackwall says, tugging her by the arm before she rushes off in the wrong direction. She’s off balance, still trying to get her jacket on, and stumbles into him.

He catches her, of course, he's always there to catch her, and holds on a moment too long. Matsora knows it's too long because with her ear to his chest, she can count his heartbeats. She breathes in the smell of him, soaks up his warmth, and then remembers herself yet again and pulls away.

"To the ballroom, then," Blackwall says. There's a sparkle in his eye, a smile tugging at his lips behind all that beard. Matsora can't help but grin back up at him.

Later, when the metaphorical dust has settled -- actual dust is wouldn't be permitted on the grounds, the servants would chase it off in an instant -- Matsora gets a few minutes to breathe.

"Out here by yourself? There's a crowd of people in there who'd give their left... feet to spend some time with you," Blackwall says, coming out onto the balcony. He leans on the railing next to her. After a beat, he reaches across and puts his hand on her back. Just lightly, not like he's trying to push her over the edge.

Honestly, if they have to stay at Halamshiral for much longer, she'll push herself.

"I'm exhausted," she admits. "It's been a very long night."

There's a cheer from inside. Blackwall steps away from her, taking his warm hand with him. Matsora bites back a grumble and turns to see what the fuss is about. Blackwall sweeps low into a bow and holds out his hand. "Lady Cadash? May I have this dance?"

"If you ever call me 'Lady Cadash' again, I'll trade you in for a snoufleur," she says. The blush on her face must be as red as her coat. She takes his hand and lets herself be spun gently towards him.

Blackwall chuckles and settles a hand on her waist. Matsora's pressed against his chest for the second time that evening, and this time she doesn't have shitty Orlesian politics hanging over their heads and rushing them along. She breathes deeply, relaxing into him, letting him do the lion's share of holding her up. He doesn't seem to mind.

"I'm serious. We'll put a beard on him. It'll be the next big trend."

"I'm certain," he agrees.

"I didn't know you danced," she says after a few turns. She looks up at him and sees him smiling back at her.

"I did once, in another life. Never thought I'd be so happy to do it again."

Blackwall leans down a bit further as if to kiss her, but she goes up on her toes to meet him in the middle. It takes a second to get it right, with the bumping noses and one uncomfortable clack of teeth, but then they ease together after a tense second and it's perfect. _Perfect_ perfect. Despite his ample height advantage, they slot together like they were made for this. Matsora feels a little light-headed and places her hand against his chest to steady herself. He twines his fingers through hers and yes, she'll admit, she makes an eager noise into his mouth.

"Finally," Leliana says. She's materialized in the doorway, one arm slung around Josephine's waist, both beaming. Cullen's next to them, looking a little less harassed than he had earlier and also smile faintly.

Matsora takes the smallest step possible away from Blackwall, just enough to say their lips aren't touching anymore, and she's loathe to even do that much.

"Are we done here?" she asks, specifically pointing her question to Josephine. Blackwall still has his arm around her, toying with the red fabric at the small of her back.

Josephine smiles beatifically and turns, leading the way to the front doors. Matsora grins, taking Blackwall's hand in hers. She's not letting go again for a long time.

" _We're_ not done here though," she whispers to Blackwall, just in case he thought otherwise. He squeezes her hand and she knows he gets it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate that quest so dang much, so if I missed a critical details, it's only because I refuse to go back and play it again :)


	6. i. The Long Road Home to Skyhold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5 times Blackwall knew a shortcut and 1 time he knew a shortcut and wouldn't point it out for all of the sapphires and rubies in Orlais.

No matter who’s with her or where they’re coming from, once Skyhold is visible in the horizon, the pace quickens. Home is in sight, and though home is an old, drafty elvhen castle, definitely haunted and frequently freezing, it’s theirs. They’re always excited to get back for a hot bath, a hot meal, and a warm bed.

Sera whoops this time as they trudge up the path. "Come on, Ugly," she says, tugging at the pack mule's reins. She speeds up with the mule dutifully right by her side.

The Iron Bull laughs. "Thought she was talking to you for a second," he says to Blackwall.

"I thought so too," Blackwall says with an easy smile. Tensions drain rapidly when home is near, the stresses and bickering of being on the road melt away.

Matsora's so tired the lights in the keep are dancing before her eyes, but she smiles. It's been a long, exhausting trek to the Storm Coast and back, especially in such cold, windy weather, but her friends know how to make her laugh.

Bull tugs the straps of his pack and speeds up behind Sera, calling something to her that gets carried away on the breeze.

"Need me to carry you?" Blackwall asks, leaning down to reach her ear. His breath ghosts across her skin and she doesn't hide her excited shiver.

"I should be able to make it," she says, taking his hand and squeezing. "But maybe stick right next to me, just in case."

Blackwall chuckles and tugs her against his side. "Of course."

They'd had precious few moments alone together since Halamshiral, stealing a second here for a kiss or there to check in after a battle. The notion of having him to herself for at least twenty-four hours before they were flung off to another corner of Thedas is dizzying. Matsora's been thinking a lot about it for something heretofore she thought unthinkable.

"You know, if we just went…"

She peers up at him. "Went where?"

Blackwall glances around before he beams at her and pecks a quick kiss on her forehead. "Nothing. No where. Let's keep going."

Matsora has either missed the joke or he's being purposefully mysterious. Either way, with his big hand around hers, their packs jostling one another, and him smiling at her like she hung the moons, she doesn't remotely care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone <3


End file.
